


When You're Smiling (The Whole World Smiles With You)

by alleyesonthehindenburg



Series: Finest Kind [1]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleyesonthehindenburg/pseuds/alleyesonthehindenburg
Summary: As of August, 1950, Lieutenant H. S. Winchester has been assigned to M.A.S.H unit 4077.





	When You're Smiling (The Whole World Smiles With You)

When she finally gets her assignment, Honoria steels herself for the worst. She’s not disappointed.

The 4077 seems pretty dingy, not that she has anything to compare it to. The jeep drops her unceremoniously in the centre of the compound before roaring off, and she’s left standing in the dust, squinting at the ragtag mess of tents around her. It’s sweltering beneath the August sun, and it takes a long moment before the door to the hospital swings open, and a pudgy young man in a corporal’s uniform bustles out.

“Gee, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he says, picking up her bags, “the cockroach races are on and we forgot you were coming. You are Lieutenant Winchester, right?”

“C-cockroach races?” She hopes the stutter is attributed to surprise, though it’s not like it’ll be a secret for long.

“Yes, ma’am. Uh, Lieutenant Winchester?”

“Yes, that’s m-me.” She holds out a hand and winces as he makes to shake it, dropping one of her bags in the progress.

“Oh, gee, I’m real sorry – I’m Corporal O’Reilly, but you can just call me Radar, everyone around here does.”

“N-nice to meet you,” she says, and if he’s noticed a pattern he doesn’t show it, just hefts her bags and starts across the compound, chattering about mealtimes and when to shower in order to get the warm water. She’s starting to think it might not be so bad here.

 

The surgeons, just like everywhere else she’s worked, are a pain in the ass. Henry Blake is alright, if obviously unsuited for command. Trapper John at least is a familiar sort; she’d bet he’s from Southie, or maybe Jamaica Plain, and the grin he gives her is genuine when he finds out she’s from Boston too. Hawkeye Pierce is a charming nuisance. When he’s not playing pranks on the whole of the camp, he’s chasing after the nurses like a horny teenager, and pouts just as much when he’s rejected. There’s something rather queer about him, she thinks, not that she’d ever tell.

The three of them all have a surgeon’s ego, but they’re not so bad. Frank Burns, on the other hand, reminds her of a rat she once saw gnawing on a dead fish at Park Street Station. He wouldn’t be halfway to tolerable even if he  _ was _ competent in surgery, and just her luck, he’s not.

(She’s beginning to realise that it is, in fact, typical of the luck of the entire 4077.)

Her stammer becomes old news pretty fast, and to everyone but Burns, her skill in the O.R. makes up for it plenty. But every mistake he makes gets blamed on her, and Houlihan may not punish her for it, but she doesn’t stand up for her, either. Most of the time Honoria makes sure to work with another surgeon. Hawkeye flirts with her just like any other nurse, even though her stuttered retorts slow down his rapid-fire flow, and she may not have the least bit of interest in the man but she can’t help but be pleased. Occasionally, though, she gets stuck with Burns, and it’s after those O.R. sessions that she understands the appeal of the god-awful gin they’re brewing in the swamp.

She takes up boxing with Father Mulcahy instead.

 

The company clerk turns out to be really something. He pulls some strings so that it looks like her letters are coming from Boston, and given the time it takes for Charles’ letters to get from Tokyo to home, and to be forwarded by her roommate all the way back to Korea – well, there’s no reason for Charles to suspect a thing.

That thought sticks in her mind, her first Christmas there. Her brother is just seven hundred miles away, but the distance has never felt so great. It’s been three straight days of meatball surgery. There’s no warm fireplace to come home to, no hot chocolate made just right or gingerbread fresh out of the oven. Hell, there’s not even a half-decent meal. As hard as she’s tried not to – as much as she reminds herself it’s a good thing he isn’t out here – she can’t help but resent Charles’ cushy life in Tokyo. Every letter is filled with complaints, and she can’t say a thing. Not even Henry’s monthly lecture is enough to dispel the lingering bitterness, but on Christmas Eve the camp is overflowing with orphans, and as Honoria sneaks some anonymous gifts into the sack of toys, she knows her brother is doing the same. She may have her disagreements with their parents, but this is one thing they got right.

The party is winding down by the time a new batch of wounded comes in, along with their missing Santa Claus, and she finds herself scrubbing up again. No one even notes the passing of midnight, and by silent agreement everyone trudges to the mess as soon as they’re done.

Apart from the occasional  _ can you pass a _ the tent is silent. Honoria drinks her coffee quietly, eyes fixed on the Christmas tree. It’s lopsided and skinny, decorated with as many surplus surgical supplies as proper ornaments, and try as she might she can’t pretend it’s just as comforting as the one that stands tall in the Boston Commons.

 

It’s not just the men left without their usual helping hands when the nurses all rally round Edwina. Honoria discovers she’s not the only woman in camp bent a particular way.

 

Tommy Gillis dies on the operating table.

Hawkeye Pierce has always seemed just a bit untouchable, with his constant wisecracks and endless flirting, but not now. Not while he’s crying, and turning to Henry for wisdom. He looks practically a child with his eyes red-rimmed, and Honoria backs away quietly.

(Henry Blake, she thinks, deserves a lot more credit than he gets. He’s not so old, not so experienced. He didn’t ask to be here, and he’s not prepared for it. But he was thrust into the centre stage, playing father-figure to a lot of scared people barely younger than he is, and damned if he doesn’t try his hardest.)

Back at the tent, her latest letter to Charles sits on her bunk, only half-finished. She pitches it into the stove without a thought. There’s nothing in it that matters, and as she grabs at a sheet of paper to start anew, she pretends to herself that the prickling in her eyes is for Tommy Gillis, and every other young man who’s died in her O.R.

 

_ Dear Charles, _

_ I miss you very much. We lost a patient today; not my first, but this one was a friend of the chief surgeon’s. I suppose it’s never occurred to me before that someone I know and care about could end up on the table in front of me. _

_ Your sister, _

_ Honoria _

 

_ Dearest Honoria, _

_ I’m terribly sorry that you had to experience such a thing. It should never have happened, and I shall be writing your hospital immediately; no surgeon should be operating on someone he knows. Tufts is well-staffed and (generally) well-managed, and I have every confidence that, should it ever happen, you will be able to excuse yourself from operating on a friend. I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, losing a patient, but I know better than to condescend to you. Know that I am here for you always. _

_ Your brother, _

_ Charles _

 

Honoria can barely hear herself think, with the hooping and hollering going on outside, but she still manages to sit Radar down at his station and bully him into making a call. Her stomach is swooping with anxious energy, excitement like a firecracker despite her best attempts not to get her hopes up, and she listens impatiently as Radar puts the call in.

“No, no, Sparky – you just gotta  _ pretend _ like it’s coming from Boston,” Radar says. “Yeah, Massachusetts!” He puts down the receiver, frowning at her, and says, “Massachusetts, right ma’am?”

“Y-you –”

“Yeah, Sparky, Massachusetts. Well who is it down on that end? Dustup? Aw, gee – well just tell him I’ll owe him one, will ya?”

She loses track of Radar’s conversation for a moment when the door to the office bursts open and she’s swept up by Hawkeye, dancing an odd jig-waltz in time with the music blaring over the loudspeaker. “Kiss me and I’ll b-bite you,” she warns, and Hawkeye laughs, loud and infectious, throwing his head back before he vanishes back into the fray.

There’s a part of her that’s going to want to blame him, if the ceasefire falls through and all their hopes are dashed, but she imagines he’ll be plenty miserable on behalf of the whole camp.

“Here you go, ma’am,” Radar says, holding the phone out, and she lets herself forget her doubts for a moment.

Her brother’s voice is tinny over the line, but unmistakable. “Honoria?”

“Charles!”

“Is everything alright?”

“Y-yes, why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s nearly midnight in Boston, isn’t it?”

Is it? She can never keep track of the timezones. “Can’t I c-call my brother just to say hello?”

“Well, of course! But what on earth is that racket?”

“They’re p-practicing for the Saint Patrick’s D-day parade,” she says, grinning at the absurdity of her own lie. “H-how are you? How is it g-going in Tokyo?”

“Monotonous as ever. I’m telling you, Honoria, we could teach the Japanese a thing or two about the proper preparation of seafood.”

“You like s-sushi.”

“Only in the absence of a proper New England lobster. Honoria –”

“Is there any n-news about the war?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s some talk of ceasefire again, but I’m assured by the higher-ups in Tokyo that nothing will come of it.”

Honoria feels her smile freeze on her face. “R-really?”

“Yes, they do this periodically. Listen, Honoria –”

“It’s w-wonderful speaking with you, Charles, b-but I really must catch some sleep.”

“Of course, Honoria –”

“S-speak soon,” she says, her voice weighed down with false cheerfulness, and she hands the phone off to Radar.

The sounds of celebration still ring through the camp, the happiest anyone’s ever been in this godforsaken place. She has to tell them. She has to.

“Uh, ma’am?”

“Yes, Radar?”

“Ma’am, um, I was wondering if you would sign my scrapbook? I thought it’d be nice, you know, so I can remember everyone once we all go home.”

He’s looking up at her with that puppy-dog expression, and she knows not to be fooled – this is the kid who’s shipped most of a jeep home already – but at the end of the day, he’s still just that, a kid who’s seen too much.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she says, taking the pen he’s holding out. The least she can do is give them a few more hours of happiness.


End file.
